DarrenByrne.com

Do you remember Dubstar? They were a 90’s band who apparently had three albums and a best of album, but in my head they were just a one hit wonder, who produced the great Not So Manic Now in 1995. I loved this track and I think it’s aged well.

If you are stuck for something to watch this weekend, you could do worse than head out to your local DVD store (when did we stop calling them Video shops?) and rent out Dolores Claiborne. Adapted from the Stephen King novel of the same name, this movie is beautiful, a perfect mix of stark storytelling and wonderful acting.

Dolores Claiborne, played by Kathy Bates, works as a maid for a wealthy and tyrannical woman in remote Maine. When she is arrested for the elderly woman’s murder, Dolores’ daughter Selena (Jennifer Jason Lee) returns from New York, where she has become a famed reporter. In the course of uncovering the truths to mystery of what has happened, as well as addressing some difficult questions from the past and Selina’s troubled childhood, much is revealed about their family’s domestic strife. As small town justice relentlessly grinds forward, surprises lie in store for the viewer.

There is an epic arc of a storyline that is reminiscent of some of Kings other work, Stand By Me and Shawshank Redemption come to mind, where the visceral horror of much of his other work is replaced by emotional trauma and the examination of human interactions.

Directed by Taylor Hackford, who was nominated for an Oscar for Ray a few years back, the strong script and incredible direction still only come second to the truly amazing performance by Kathy Bates. She may have missed out on the Oscar nomination for this movie, but her performance here far outstrips her maniacal turn as Annie Wilkes (in another King adaptation, Misery). Playing an abused wife and a put-upon house maid, she only rarely lets her guard down. Instead she maintains a gruff and cantankerous exterior, which does her no favours when going up against the detective investigating the murder. But it is in her relationship with her daughter, Selena, that we see the heartbreaking history in the characters eyes. Jennifer Jason Lee is not the greatest actress who has ever graced the screen, but as a foil to Bates’ Claiborne, she plays the tragic Selena perfectly. Young Selina too, played by Ellen Muth of the TV series Dead Like Me, is a harrowing character – her portrayal of the young girl, I guarantee, will bring a tear to your eye.

If you’ve never seen this movie, give it a go. I assure you that you will not be disappointed. If you have already seen it, watch it again – so much more to the relationships, the back stories and the beautiful film making is picked up on in the second and third watching.

I‘ve had a varied relationship with Talbot Street over the years. As I wander down the old Dublin street towards the last DART this evening, I can’t help but feel nostalgic.

Many years ago, as a child, we would make about three or four trips a year op to Doblin from Wickla and these were exciting times. Placing aside for a moment, the fact that any brief exodus from the cess pit of Wicklow Town was a welcome break, the times spent on Christmas Shopping trips or school clothes hunting were good times.

We would alight from a very-different-from-today Connolly Station and exit onto Sheriff Street before greeting the real train platform, the real route that led from the ancient train depot to the wonderful, modern and vibrant land of Dublin City Centre (the eyes of a child, and the naivety of youth cloud life with such wonder); we would alight onto Talbot Street. As a child I never knew Grainger’s Pub (perhaps it went by another name back then anyway) and I had a passing acquaintance with the furniture shops. There were no internet cafe’s (what’s an internet?) and there were no Halal stores or Polish food emporiums (surely Polish is used to clean shoes?).

The first shop we always hit (without fail) was the claustrophobic, the grimy, the stuffy, the frightening Michael Guiney’s. This would be the first of about eight trips into this particular shop that day and the majority of purchases that day would be made there. Bed sheets and pillows, summer shorts and towels; this shop had everything functional and practical – it was a child’s nightmare. And I could never understand why my mother would drag us from shop to shop to shop only to return there to get the things she had seen hours ago in the same place to begin with.

Moving on. We would spend much of the day in clothes shops: Boyers, Dunnes Stores, Penneys and if life was treating me kindly, if the Gods were shining down, if the wind was blowing in just the right direction, we could go into Virgin Megastore on the quays on the southside of the city (the well-to-do shopping district of Grafton Street was alien to me back then). I would spend my brief time allotted running around the store, looking at the many cassette tapes and video tapes, I would pick out a poster for my bedroom wall if the day was being kind. But we would always return to Talbot Street. If lunch wasn’t had in MacDonalds (as a child this disgusting ritual was, in fact, a wonderful treat – it must have been torture for my mother), it was in the Kylemore on the corner of Talbot and O’Connell Street.

Years later, in my teens, I saw less of Talbot Street. Being hip, cool and funky, we would get off the train at Pearse Street and hit the groovy, happening Grafton Street. I spent a lot more time in the Virgin Megastore than when I was a child, and I even discovered Forbidden Planet on the quays. I did not miss Talbot Street and on the rare occasion we would walk back that way to return to Connolly Station, I would shiver as we passed the two Guineys’ stores.

I got older (as people tend to do); I met a girl and fell in love. After a couple of very dodgy abodes in Killester, we moved into Dublin city centre. I think it’s fair to say that 521 Talbot Hall, above the Irish Life Mall, was our first proper home together. We loved it. It was warm (very warm, the heating was provided by the shopping centre below (it was not uncommon for us to wander around the apartment naked)). We had space for our stuff, which at that point consisted of about five new DVD’s, a Philips DVD player, a 14″ television and some clothes (we probably owned a crate or two of Heineken or Budweiser too).

We spent almost two years living on Talbot Street and or lives saw some dramatic turns in that time. The fifth floor apartment saw some amazing highs and some painful lows. I was not an ideal flatmate at the time but Lottie stuck with me through it all. As we emerged from teenagery into young adulthood we began to know what the strange words ‘career’, ‘future’ and ‘savings account’ meant.

Many nights were spent lying on the floor of our Talbot Street apartment, drinking cheap wine and listening to the sounds of the street below: the trad music billowing out of The Celt, the sometimes excellent but often distressing karaoke tunes burping from the bar on the corner. We would hear fights and screams and drunken renditions of the Green Fields of France permeate through the general hum of the city centre. And we loved it all. Perhaps it was because we went through all of this time together but, it’s fair to say, that both of us look back on our time on Talbot Street very fondly. It was our first real home together and I was very happy there.

And times moved on, we found a larger place on Pearse Street, but as I was still working at the top of O’Connell Street, in Cassidys Hotel, Talbot Street was still part of my life. I was still a customer of the street’s Chartbusters, I still picked up good deals in the small Golden Discs store beside the side entrance to Clerys. But the frequency of my Talbot Street touristry rapidly decreased.

Our move into our own place in Greystones and with our working life repositioning to the southside of the river, Talbot Street ceased to be a feature in our lives and I rarely give it a fleeting thought. But wandering down the street tonight, heading towards the last DART this evening, I can’t help but feel nostalgic.

My attitude to the street has changed dramatically too over the years. Where once I felt excited about the street that greeted us in the Big Smoke, it was replaced with a distaste, when I saw the street as a symbol of poverty and degeneracy. That feeling too gave way when we made the street our home. It became local, it became safe and familiar for us. Tonight, the old fears return. Junkies in doorways and bar brawls spilling onto the streets, prove that the street’s bad reputation was well earned and is being maintained. Surely, as the pathway into the city for many tourists, more could be done to improve the thoroughfare.

So, Iceland has become a pharmacy and the old derelict buildings have become Tesco and SuperValu with luxury apartments above, but this is still the same old street. I have a lingering fondness for the good times and the great memories Talbot Street has given me, but as the realism sets in (and the evening’s alcohol wears off), I can see that this is just another symbol of a subsection of Irish society left to fall behind. Perhaps it’s best not to look back so much, but focus instead on the hear and now. Perhaps that’s true of all things in life. Remember the past, embrace the present and look forward with an open mind to the future ahead.

Much as it pains me to do it, I have to give kudos to my good friend Darragh Doyle. He has been working in his current position for only a short while and he has clearly made an incredibly positive impression on those he worked with.

After seeing Iron Man last night, we joined Doyle in The Church for his leaving drinks. His workmates were saying goodbye to both Darragh and another colleague of his and it’s clear from speaking with them (some of whom I’ve met before) that they will all miss him.

So, congratulations, Mr. Doyle, on your new position and I hope you keep in touch with these people who clearly hold you in high esteem (even if they did try to poison you…)

As the Cinemagic Festival draws to a close, the organisers reflect on six months work, sponsorship deals, input from children, the organisation of each event and the patting on the backs of those who deserve to be patted on the back.

And in screen 17 of Cineworld Cinema on Parnell Street at 7.20, as all of this celebratory oration ensued, I patiently bit my nails waiting for the closing movie, Iron Man to begin. Credit where it’s due. This past week has seen workshops, classes and events designed immerse young people in the world of film and screen and to nurture talents of other young up-and-coming filmmakers of the future.

But…IRON MAN!!!

The silver screen outing of the iconic Iron Man is the perfect mix of comedy, drama and superhero campness and mayhem. Robert Downey Jnr’s Tony Stark is a solid role. It is not a simple lock-and-load action hero. It requires some gritty acting to pull off a character that sees a story arc begin with a millionaire playboy lifestyle, move into tortured kidnap victim, emerge into a born again humanitarian only to be driven by a sense of guilt and revenge to become a potential hero to the world. Downey is perfect in this role. Drawing upon his own life, he plays a man who possesses incredible talent but is wasting it on a lifestyle of alcohol and loose women.

Seen again in the upcoming Edward Norton take on the role of Bruce Banner/Hulk, Marvel seem to have realised that high octane action and massive explosions cannot cut it anymore. Perhaps being burned by Bana’s Hulk, they now see that quality acting and intelligent writing is required to bring the often decades of comic book complexities to the big screen.

Iron Man surpasses expectations. The excellent script did not miss a beat and the direction made sure that each character (including the excellent support act of Terrence Howard in the role of Stark’s friend, Jim Rhodes) were explored beyond a 2D stereotype. On top of acting and script prowess, this movie does not fail to deliver on heavy duty action and huge landscapes. As we travel from the deserts of Afghanistan to the cities of California to the beautiful home of Tony Stark, we are greeted by destruction and mayhem at very turn. Even the lighthearted comic elements of the movie are infused with action (the scenes in which Stark tests his burgeoning technology are fantastic).

This film is also a perfect example of good use of CG. Needless to say the big flying machine and the robot battle scenes are epic in their use of computer generated imagery, but it is the more sybtle use of CG (notably when Gwyneth Paltow’s Pepper Potts must reach her hand into Tony Starks chest cavity) that prove that Hollywood is finally learning to utilise the available technologies rather than simply pump a load of CG action in and hope for profits (see the aforementioned Hulk or the last of the Matrix movies, Revolutions).

The first blockbuster of 2008, Iron Man sufficiently whets the appetite in preparation for Indiana Jones return, the tentative big screen version of Speed Racer, Shyamalan’s The Happening, the updated Incredible Hulk, and of course the huge Dark Knight. I can’t wait!

Once again, a huge thank you to Darragh and to all those involved in the Cinemagic Festival. Congratulations on a very successful week and I look forward to next year’s events.

I picked up my bagel and a new pair of sunglasses and whiled away my late lunch in St Stephen’s Green. After a few minutes of wandering, I found a free bench and sat to watch the world go by. What a great day and a great life I have.

Okay, the sunshine is unlikely to give me a tan and if I took off my coat, I’d probably catch a cold, but this is Ireland – anyone waiting for the good weather to enjoy their day will die very unhappy. There is a light breeze and a warm sun – what could be nicer.

I love people-watching and to watch a mother worry about her toddler who is chasing pigeons, to watch a young couple laughing together in the grass, to watch three businessmen kick a football around, to watch two people dancing around the gazebo is a wonderful experience and disintegrates all cynicisms. I could sit here all day and smile at the goings on.

But, alas, I must go back to work. I must once again join the hustle and bustle of Dublin City centre.

Helen O’Hara in Empire Magazine writes about the really really bad movies that she’s reviewed in recent times – it is her job afterall. She tells us to avoid Pamela Anderson and Denise Richards’ Blonde and Blonder and rips through Eddie Murphy’s abysmal Norbit.

But she begins her piece talking about one of her guilty pleasures, watching Van Helsing, a ‘bad movie’ which she enjoys. It got me thinking about the movies I like to watch that, eh, wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea.

I first saw Tremors very late one night on a very fuzzy 14 inch TV while in my Granny’s house. I loved it immediately and couldn’t wait to see it again. I remember having great difficulties finding it. Our video store wasn’t great and didn’t have it and I was a poor young lad back then, so couldn’t go up to the big city to buy it. I finally managed to get a copy of it one night when I was babysitting in a neighbour’s house. They had some new fangled thing called Sky Movies.

For a long while Tremors was one of those movies I watched and watched and watched. I still pull it out of the DVD press occassionally and I still love it.

While playing Mario Kart a few nights ago, we were discussing the Super Mario Brothers Movie with Bob Hoskins and John Leguizamo. It seems to be one of those movies that’s universally accepted as being awful…but I remember it fondly. Okay, it’s many years since I saw it and I’m not sure if I should spoil the memory I have by watching it again now. If anyone wants to buy it for me, I’ll watch it. 🙂

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is, of course, one of my favourite movies and I would argue that it’s too good to be considered a ‘bad movie’…but the acting is brutal, the set design is frightening and the lip synching leaves a lot to be desired. But all the bad points add to the charm.

And then there’s a string of bad horror movies that I just adore. All the Freddy movies (yep, ALL of them), the Critters movies, Friday the 13th and its sequels, the Psycho sequels and the Exorcist sequels (and prequels). It’s just so much fun to switch off your brain and fall into the messed up worlds these films create.

Has anyone else any guilty pleasure, any movies that are more likely to be found in the bargain basement than on IMDB’s top 100 list?

Because she asked so nicely (or threatened so well, one or the other):

Following on from I Got My Head Chopped Off

Well, after a year long follicle cultivation project, I finally got a haircut yesterday. Gone are the long, flowing, Celtic, curly locks and in their place is something that resembles a plastic wig you might see on a lego man.

I knew it was a mistake. I liked my long hair, it was the first hair style I ever had that felt like ‘me’, but I stupidly bowed to the pressures of those around me and now I look like Jack Bauer’s wife in the first series of 24. And while it may be cool in some circles to look like a member of the cast of 24, it is never cool for a 26 year old man to look like Jack Bauer’s missus.

I remember I had a teacher in my first or second year of secondary school (I think she tought me Irish or maybe History). She was in her early forties and I remember her as a pleasant woman. I look like her now.

There was a woman who worked in Tesco when I was 16 or 17. She usually worked the day shift but was put onto the night shift one too many times and decided to quit. She ended up working in Xtra Vision (or was it Movie Magic?). Well, I look like her now.

The cut does make me look like one bloke I used to know. He was a few years older than me and not very cool at all. He liked to wear dresses and call himself Barbara. I wonder if he still does!?

Note to self: no more haircuts…ever!

I rarely click onto any of the ads around the sites and blogs I frequent. Sorry to anyone who has google ads as a revenue stream, but I’m afraid I’m not great with the click-throughs. But today I clicked onto an ad for the Irish Times Front Page Sales service (okay, so it was an ad on Shane Hegarty’s blog, so I’m not sure that really counts as advertising).

The service allows you to get a framed printout of the front page of the Irish Times on almost any day. I personally think this would make a great gift for many people. To test it out, I thought I’d check out my birth date. It turns out I was born on a Sunday, and the Irish times is in print Monday to Saturday. A little disappointed, but otherwise unphased, I tried Lottie’s birth date……yep, a Sunday. Argh!

Still, it seems like a good service. I’m sure I’ll get to use it eventually.

Oh the shame. The shame of it all. I’m an Irishman through and through, I love my country, I am proud of our fair nation, I adore our flag (ok, I have a passing interest in the tricolour, but I have a theme going, so let’s not ruin it), I rejoice on our patron saints day and I drink the black stuff like it’s manna from heaven…and yet, I cannot speak our language.

I’m embarrassed every time I go to the shop to buy milk, and struggle to muster “bainne”, I near tears as I queue for tickets at the train station and am unable to form a sentence beyond “ticéad Na Clocha Liatha”, and when I am in the pub and I hear all the people around me actively engaged in conversations as gaeilge, I weep inside. How come everyone in this country can speak Irish except me?

Well, I’ve decided to correct this egregious error on my part and get some Irish lessons. On and off over the past few years, I’ve picked up books and tapes and CD’s on learning Irish and I usually lose interest fairly quickly. Well, this time I’m sticking with it (maybe).

I’m looking at a few classes at the moment, but if anyone knows of some course that would be worth doing, let me know. GaelChultúr.com have a class running from May 26th, which looks good.

So wish me luck and I may even start using Firefox as gaeilge.

This week sees the newspapers knee deep in the latest Austrian kidnap story, that of a woman who was held captive for 24 years by her father who repeatedly and routinely abused her and fathered her 7 children. The woman, known as Elisabeth Fritzl was locked in a tiny basement for many years and systematically raped by this evil man (am I supposed to stick the word ‘allegedly’ in here somewhere?).

It’s hard not to think of the story of another Austrian, Natascha Kampusch, who escaped on 23rd August 2006 after being held by Wolfgang Priklopil for more than eight years. Priklopil kept her stowed away in his tiny soundproof basement from age 10 until she had the opportunity to run away aged 18. On a day when he had allowed her access outside, he turned his back to take a phone call and she ran. Climbing over fences and banging on doors, her pleas were ignored until she reached the home of an elderly neighbour. Before the police could locate him, Priklopil jumped in front of a train in Vienna, committing suicide before he could provide any answers or explanations.

I remember when this story broke, it was very big news, all over the newspapers and television, but I thought it odd that as quickly as the story broke, it seemed to fade back into obscurity. Presumably, much of the drop-off in media interest was Natascha’s understandable refusal to talk to the media, despite being offered large sums of money for her ‘exclusive’. But it was a story (I hesitate to use the word story, as I acknowledge it is a person’s life I’m talking about), it was a story that I was eager to hear more of and over the past year and a half I have spotted small headlines and updates on what Natascha has been saying and doing.

She firstly agreed to do an interview with ORF, a respected Austrian broadcaster. The interview was given without payment (although the sale of the interview to other broadcasters did net her a fee). Further newspaper interviews were granted in exchange for housing and the payment for her education. These interviews, in September 2006, showed a well educated, surprisingly confident and articulate young woman who would not, perhaps, be the imagined picture of a victim of 8 years of serial abuse. She told of how he would give her books and teach her, how he would share meals with her, how he ‘allowed’ her to play in his garden and how he had taken her on holidays with him. She also spoke of the beatings and sexual abuse. She told of her abduction eight years previous but could not recollect a second man, although a witness claimed to have seen her bundled into a minivan by two men.

There was speculation that she was suffering from Stolkholm Syndrome, where the victim identified with and grows to appreciate, need and in some cases love their captor. She strenuously denied this, describing Priklopil as a “criminal”. It’s impossible to imagine what she went through for all those years, and the fact that he had a ‘nice’ side, a side that provoked Natascha to light a candle for him in the morgue, a side that had her say she felt “more and more sorry for him – he is a poor soul”, probably made it worse. It must be psychologically destroying to have someone act kindly towards you some of the time while beating you and raping you and locking you in a tiny room the rest of the time. It would not be surprising if there was an element of Stolkholm to it.

The Natascha Kampusch story did not end there however. I recall a side piece buried in the newspaper that revealed she was being kept away from her mother for her own safety. No more details were given and I had to go searching to find that her mother had been officially charged last May for aiding in the abduction and in covering up abuse. If guilty, she would have been responsible for helping Wolfgang Priklopil to kidnap her 10 year old daughter. What is more disturbing is that she further sought to gain from the ordeal by releasing her own book detailing her “Frantic Years”, as it was called.

In the past few months, Natascha has added a further obscure chapter to her life’s story. She has taken a job fronting a chat show on Austrian television, entitled “In Conversation with Natascha Kampusch”. I am all in favour of the girl getting her life together and finding a path for herself that she has been denied for so long, but a career in the celebrity spotlight seems odd. Well, I look forward to the subtitled version.

Which brings me to my point. I’m not sure why this story gained my attention, but it truly has and it did from day one. Perhaps the slow leak of details and the still as yet unanswered questions, maybe the fascination with a good mystery (whatever happened Priklopil’s supposed male accomplice), or I wonder if it’s just my morbid curiosity that has me ask, when will she bring out her own book about her eight years of imprisonment? I’ll buy it.

I don’t mean to be flippant, but while it is a sad story, it is also very fascinating. Fascinating and frightening that this could go on for so long in today’s world, in a developed country. So too, it is fascinating and frightening that it is not a one off. The arrest of Elisabeth Fritzl’s 74 year old father will do little to ease the minds of his poor daughter, abused for 24 years, or her children, who cannot possibly know normality. I make no apologies for it, but this is a story that I will continue to follow. Yes, it is unsettling and yes, it makes me angry and sick, but it is better to be informed and angry that to ignore it and turn a blind eye, allowing ourselves to live in ignorant bliss.

Update: Bock has more on the Fritzl story

If anyone wants to go see Donnie Darko on the big screen at Cineworld Cinemas tomorrow (Tuesday 29th April) at 6.30pm, please let me know.

It’s part of Cinemagic’s Screen Festival, running until May 1st.

FREE TICKETS to the Delightfully Deranged Donnie Darko

Slashfilm have been talking about two movies that are going to be huge. Bigger than the Dark Knight, more exciting that Iron Man and with more nostalgia than Indiana Jones:

Firstly, I’m sure we can all agree that there is nothing more exciting that Speed 3: Ignition!!

And if that’s not enough, here is the trailer for the awesome Tetris: The Movie

Okay, thankfully these are both fakes, but it’s amazing the length people will go to these days for a bit of humorous parody. Speed3 even has its own website. The brilliant Tetris trailer was made by Black20.

http://www.slashfilm.com/2008/04/25/votd-tetris-the-movie/

http://www.slashfilm.com/2008/04/24/speed-3-ignition/

Continued from Dodging Bullets in Donegal

Back in our hosts’ house, as our tension ridden group nursed our bruises and plotted revenge and the systematic demise of our once close friends, we prepared for dinner. Two taxis collected us and brought us to some kind of industrial estate. There were factories and warehouses, open expanses and open plan offices, but there was no obvious sign of a restaurant. I had heard stories of people travelling into the heartland of Donegal only to be abducted, brought to a secluded location and tickled to death. Up until this moment, I had assumed the stories were nothing more than urban legends.

At the moment I was ready to scream (like a big girl) for help, we pulled over to rest beside a new building which had no signage over it, but its big windows did show us that there were people dining. I felt somewhat secure and ventured in.

La Fantasia – yes, it’s a restaurant and not a sex shop – was surprisingly nice. The food was very good. While some of the group moaned about the varying degrees of rarity in their respective steaks, I happily tucked into my veal in wild mushroom sauce. While the veal may not have been the most flavoursome I’ve had, the sauce more than made up for it. Delicious!

Thinking about it afterwards, I think everyone in our group would have happily taxied straight back to the house after dinner rather than go to the club. We looked rather stoic (a mixture of stuffed stomachs and mangled muscles), especially when compared with the five separate Hen Parties that surrounded us. A boost to my ego came when I was bestowed with a garland that apparently signified that I was a ‘cute guy’. Okay, garland is probably overselling it. It was a pair of ‘L’ plates with string through them, and, as one of my good friends pointed out, probably stood for ‘Loser’.

After an exhausting one pint, we legged it back to the house (is this a sign of old age setting in?). We relaxed into beanbags and armchairs and began our long night of drunken revelry. Retrospectively, I’m not sure any of us should have picked up those microphones (with the exception maybe of Stella and her beautiful voice). I’m sure the neighbourhood curdled as our caterwauling commenced.

Singstar on the Playstation is actually a fantastic idea. Anything that can unite a gang of drunken louts and not result in a fist fight must be a good thing. Again, we teamed up and took on challenges far more gruelling than paintballing – we had to sing Mariah Carrey songs.

Always at a disadvantage going up against the might of Stella and Darragh (Darragh was less ‘might’ more ‘shi……nevermind), our team of Niamh, Gary and myself were ready for the challenge. Well, we thought we were. Had it not been for Niamh’s management of the medleys and Gary’s laudable love of Lavigne, our result would have been even more dismal than it was. My only achievement of the night was a decisive win, singing Time After Time, and I’m not sure that’s something I should be entirely proud of.

As the evening grew on, the croaks and wails (and puppy dog tails) became croakier and wailier(!). We murdered No Woman No Cry, we eviscerated Africa, we lampooned Chains and completely obliterated the song formerly known as Gold. Spandau Ballet we were not.

The following morning…… I can’t actually tell you much about it. While everyone else arose and had breakfast, I steadfastly refused to step out of my slumber. I love my sleep. Shortly after I got up, we hit the road again towards Dublin and Wicklow…and I slept during the journey too.

Anyway, thank you very much to both Stella and Nicky for your hospitality. Thank you to Darragh for the use of your photographs and a huge thank you to Liz for driving to Donegal and back (and for putting up with me on a constant basis).

Dodging Bullets in Donegal

My Brief Absence